


the parabola of a comet

by peppermintcas



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintcas/pseuds/peppermintcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I knew someone who had a birthmark that was—similar to that," he says. There's an aching feeling in his chest, familiar, like a yawning cavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the parabola of a comet

There is a melody floating through Frobisher's head.

There usually is: he is a musician, a composer, and he is accustomed to writing out notes in ink and lead on paper, humming breathlessly, fingers tapping out beats and rhythms on the table, over and over and over. Treble clefs and sixteenth notes, key changes and bars: there is a comfort to getting the music out of his head and onto paper. But now, he is denied even that release—his fingers twitch, seize in the sheets—

"Sixsmith," he chokes out.

A hum at the back of his neck. "Patience," Sixsmith says; Frobisher can hear the smile in his voice, can feel the curve of his mouth as it presses gently against his nape and drags down, over the swell of his spine and his shoulder blade. Frobisher shudders, burying a sob into his pillow. His cock _aches_ , and even just Sixsmith's gentle kisses are too much for him—he wants nothing more than to reach down, grind into the sheets and come apart in this man's arms, but there is Sixsmith, again, chest against his back and calluses on the tips of his fingers, on his palms, achingly slow and soft and lovely, whispering, "I said _patience_ , dear," and then sliding away again.

" _Fuck_ ," Frobisher says, into the sheets. He hears a chuckle and feels the warmth of a palm, laid on his back as Sixsmith sits back on his heels and surveys the mess that he has made of him. "You're to be the death of me, my love."

"I hope not," Sixsmith says, a note of amusement coloring his voice. He traces a finger down Frobisher's spine. "What's this?"

"Birthmark," Frobisher mumbles. He's arching his back, seeking more of Sixsmith's touch, not even entirely consciously. He's so _gone_ ; it occurs to him to be ashamed, but Sixsmith's hands feel so good, so hot and solid and _real_ , that he can't even bring himself to stir up the usual feelings of self loathing and fear. "I've had it since—" Lips, closing over the tiny patch of skin at the base of his spine, and Frobisher arches, gasping. "Since I was born. _Jesus_ , Rufus."

"Taking the Lord's name in vain," Sixsmith says, but he's smiling, and seconds later there's a biting sensation as he sucks a hickey onto it, so that the comet looks like it's flying through a patch of red and pink and purple sky, and Frobisher comes apart, his hips stuttering, Sixsmith's hands on his back and his birthmark and in his hair and then finally, Jesus, _finally_ , on his cock, and everything is too much and so good and the melody reaches a crescendo, a high, pure, trembling note, and then it fades into silence.

\--

Years later (so many years and Sixsmith has still never been able to wash the feeling of blood off his hands) he sits in an elevator. It is red and it is hot, too hot, and the woman across from him has taken off her coat.

He sees it when she crosses her arms. He could never mistake that shape. He's traced it, kissed it, memorized it too many times to not recognize it.

 _My little comet_ , she calls it. Sixsmith closes his eyes and taps a melody on the floorboards.

"I knew someone who had a birthmark that was—similar to that," he says. There's an aching feeling in his chest, familiar, like a yawning cavern.

"Really?" Luisa asks. "Who was it?"

There is nothing to say. _Who was it?_ He doesn't know how to answer: _he was the best man I ever knew_ , he doesn't say, _he was music, and he was light, he was a lingering note cut short too soon. He was—blasphemy. God himself. He was, he was, he was..._  "Someone I cared about very much," Sixsmith says, instead, and he aches. God, he aches. Like a soul torn in two. His fingers tap ceaselessly against the floor.

He's not a composer, and he doesn't have paper or pencil, but it will have to do.

**Author's Note:**

> "Human history, like all great movements, was cyclical, and returned to the point of beginning. The idea of indefinite progress in a right line was a chimera of the imagination, with no analogue in nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a better illustration of the career of humanity. Tending upward and sunward from the aphelion of barbarism, the race attained the perihelion of civilization only to plunge downward once more to its nether goal in the regions of chaos."
> 
> —Edward Bellamy


End file.
